sea

there in the stillness
the unmoving of night
the unwinding of mortals
coiled tightly
spirals leading inward
pointing recursively at nothing

so still
you can hear the passing
of arms spinning wildly
like those of scarecrow
pointing this way and that
streatching the imagination
this wide
to the point where it believes
that this click tick whirring
is on the outside defining the inside

do you remember that
it is not?
this vain contraption
stomping louldy
boldy stating
moment to moment
it is somehow
more real than an inch

hear the sea?
or is that the shore
being beaten by the moon
she is pulling from behind
drawing the water thinner
like elastic against black sand

above the gentle roar
there is the embrangelment of bouys
lapped sineusoidally by slowing tides

he thinks of home
of mothers and lovers
and childhood friends

and a brother who will never quite get
that it was always he who sough to be like HIM
just a son to his mother